I don’t have a title for this new clip and neither does Chross (help please!) but it’s a nice bare bottom flogging with a build up which includes an ear grab and ear grabs are always good!
Posted by Valdor on May 20, 2013
Divorced, beheaded, died, birched!
Published in 2006 this best selling historical novel tells the story of two of the wives of Henry VIII from the women’s own point of view. In an early chapter the 24 year old Anne, Henry’s fourth wife-to-be, is beaten bare bottom with a rod for displeasing her brother William, the all powerful Duke of Cleves, who spies on the scene from an adjacent room.
I go through quickly to our privy chamber and fling my clothes into the chest at the foot of the bed and jump into bed in my shift, drawing the curtains around the bed, pulling the covers up. I shiver in the coldness of the linen, and wait for the order that I know will come.
In only a few moments, Amelia opens the door. “You’re to go to Mother’s rooms,” she says triumphantly.
“Tell her I’m ill. You should have said I’ve gone to bed.”
“I told her. She said you have to get up and put on a cloak and go. What have you done now?”
I scowl at her bright face. “Nothing.” I rise unwillingly from the bed. “Nothing. As always, I have done nothing.” I pull my cloak from the hook behind the door and tie the ribbons from chin to knee.
“Did you answer him back?” Amanda demands gleefully. “Why do you always argue with him?”
I go out without replying, through the silence chamber and down the steps to my mother’s rooms in the same tower on the floor below us.
At first it looks as if she is alone, but then I see the half-closed door to her privy chamber and I don’t need to hear him, and I don’t need to see him. I just know that he is there, watching.
She has her back to me at first, and when she turns I see she has the birch stick in her hand and her face is stern.
“I have done nothing.” I say at once.
She sighs irritably. “Child, is that any way to come into a room?”
I lower my head. “My lady mother,” I say quietly.
“I am displeased with you” she says
I look up. “I am sorry for that. How have I offended?”
“You have been called to a holy duty; you must lead your husband to the reformed church.”
“You have been called to a position of great honour and great dignity, and you must forge your behaviour to deserve it”
Inarguable. I lower my head again.
“You have an unruly spirit,” she goes on.
“You lack the proper traits of a woman: submission, obedience, love of duty.”
“And I fear that you have a wanton streak in you,” she says, very low.
“Mother, that I have not.” I say as quietly as her. “That is not true.”
“You do. The King of England will not tolerate a wanton wife. The Queen of England must be a woman without a stain on her character. She must be above reproach.”
“My lady mother, I…”
“Anne, think of this!” she says, and for once I hear a real ring of earnestness in her voice. “Think of this! He had the Lady Anne Boleyn executed for infidelity, accusing her of sin with half the court, her own brother among her lovers. He made her queen and then he unmade her again with no cause or evidence but his own will. He accused her of incest, witchcraft, crimes most foul. He is a man most anxious for his reputation, madly anxious. The next Queen of England must never be doubted. We cannot guarantee your safety if there is one word said against you!”
“Kiss the rod,” she says before I can argue.
I touch my lips to the stick as she holds it out to me. Behind her privy chamber door I can hear him slightly, very slightly, sigh.
“Hold the seat of the chair,” she orders.
I bend over and grip both sides of the chair. Delicately, like a lady lifting a handkerchief, she takes the hem of my cloak and raises it over my hips and then my night shift. My buttocks are naked, if my brother chooses to look through the half-open door he can see me, displayed like a girl in a bawdy house. There is a whistle of the rod through the air and the sudden whiplash of pain across my thigh. I cry out, and then bite my lip. I am desperate to know how many cuts I will have to take. I grit my teeth together and wait for the next. The hiss through the air and then the slice of pain, like a sword-cut in a dishonourable duel. The sound of the next comes too fast for me to make ready, and I cry out again, my tears suddenly coming hot and fast like blood.
“Stand up, Anne,” she says coolly, and pulls down my shift and cloak.
The tears are pouring down my face, I can hear myself sobbing like a child.
“Go to your room and read the Bible,” she says. “Think especially of your royal calling. Caesar’s wife, Anne. Caesar’s wife.”
I have to curtsey to her. The awkward movement causes a wave of new pain and I whimper like a whipped puppy. I go to the door and open it. The wind blows the door from my hand and, in the gust, the inner door to her privy chamber flies open without warning.
In the shadow stands my brother, his face strained as if it were him beneath the whip of the birch, his lips pressed tightly together as if to stop himself from calling out. For one awful moment our eyes meet and he looks at me, his face filled with a desperate need. I drop my eyes, I turn from him as if I have not seen him, as if I am blind to him. Whatever he wants of me, I know that I don’t want to hear it. I stumble from the room, my shift sticking to the blood on the backs of my thighs. I am desperate to get away from them both.
Posted by Valdor on May 18, 2013
Harold Pinter is one of Britain’s most accomplished dramatists. In addition to his twenty-nine plays, he has written many successful screenplays, essays and poems. In 2005, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
This amusing and intriguing piece appeared in Granta magazine.
I read this short story in a magazine where a girl student goes into her professor’s office and sits at his desk and passes him a note which he opens and which reads: ‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the magazine. I can’t find it. And I can’t remember what happened next. I don’t even know whether the story was fiction or fact. It may have been an autobiographical fragment. But from whose point of view was the story told? The professor’s or the girl’s? I don’t know. I can’t remember.
The blinding ignorance I am now experiencing is the clearest and cleanest road to madness. What I want to know is quite simple. Was she spanked? If, that is, she was including herself in her all-embracing proposition. If she was including herself in her all-embracing proposition, did she, personally, benefit from it? Was she, not to put too fine a point on it, one of those girls? Was she, or is she, one of those girls who, according to her account, like to be spanked? If that was the case, did it happen? Did it happen in the professor’s office, on the professor’s desk? Or not? And what about the professor? What did he make of it all?
What kind of professor was he, anyway? What was his discipline? Did he subject the assertion (girls like to be spanked) to serious critical scrutiny? Did he find it a dubious generalization or, at any rate, did he set out to verify it? Did he, in other words, put it to the test? Did he, for example, in other words, say: ‘OK. Lie on my desk, bottom up, face averted, and let us both determine whether there is substance to this assertion or not’? Or did he simply warn the student, in the interests of science, to tread warily for evermore, in the perilous field of assertion?
The trouble is, I can’t find the magazine. I’ve lost it. And I’ve no idea how the story—or the autobiographical fragment—developed. Did they fall in love? Did they marry? Did they give birth to lots of little animals?
A man or woman or both must have written this piece about a girl who walks into her professor’s office and sits at his desk and passes him a note which he opens and which reads: ‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But I don’t know his or her name; I don’t know the author’s identity. And I simply don’t know whether the girl was in fact spanked, there and then, without further ado, in the professor’s office, on his desk, or at any other time, on someone else’s desk, here, there, everywhere, all the time, on the hour, religiously, tenderly, fervently, ceaselessly, forever and forever and forever. But it’s also possible that she wasn’t talking about herself. She might not necessarily have meant that she liked to be spanked. She may just have been talking about other girls, girls she didn’t even know, millions of girls she hadn’t even met, would never meet, millions of girls she hadn’t in fact ever actually heard of, millions and billions of girls on the other side of the world who, in her view, liked, simply, without beating about the bush, to be spanked. Or on the other hand she may have been talking about other girls, girls born at Cockfosters or studying American Literature at the University of East Anglia, who had actually told her personally, in breathtaking spasms of spectacular candour, that they, when all was said but nothing yet done, liked, when the chips were down, nothing better than to be spanked. In other words, her assertion (girls like to be spanked) might have been the climax of a long, deep, thoroughly researched course of study she had undertaken honourably and had honourably concluded.
I love her. I love her so much. I think she’s a wonderful woman. I saw her once. She turned and smiled. She looked at me and smiled. Then she wiggled to a cab in the cab rank. She gave instructions to the cab driver, opened the door, got in, closed the door, glanced at me for the last time through the window and the cab drove off and I never saw her again.
Posted by Valdor on April 15, 2013
In Italy, Gioni’s sauce bottles come to life and turn the tables on their consumers. The new print campaign by a Milan-based advertising agency is entitled “Gioni’s Revenge”. There are three ads in the series:
- Brown Sauce – Don’t Spank His Bottom Again
- Tomato Ketchup – Did You Spank His Mom’s Bottom
- Salad Cream – Learn To Squeeze Her (F/M not included here)
Posted by Valdor on April 9, 2013
Coronation Street actor William Roache tells TV chef Jeanette Thomas what he’d love to do.
Posted by Valdor on March 27, 2013
David Jason slaps Juliet Hammond’s bottom in a clip from 1980s TV sit-com Only Fools and Horses.
Watch from around 2.10.
Posted by Valdor on March 24, 2013
Husband and wife electro-pop duo Hank and Cupcakes teamed up with photographer Merri Cyr for this promo shoot a few months back. They’ve pulled out all the stops to produce a set of exciting and dynamic OTK spanking images with different poses and facial expressions in each one. The oven mitt adds a quirky touch.
Credit for finding these goes to Harry who says “it always surprises and pleases me to see how often ‘mainstream’ photographers get it righter than ‘specialist’ ones when it comes to things like the feet being off the ground and the girl’s eye acting.”
If you’re a fan of top quality rock n’ roll spankings check out this video from The Cramps that Chross has posted.
Posted by Valdor on March 17, 2013
Click on the image to read a page from Time Out, the London listings magazine. It’s a feature about sex salons held at upmarket lingerie boutique Coco de Mer in Covent Garden. The blonde lady being spanked with a ruler is Nichi Hodgon – “a 28-year-old journalist, card-carrying feminist, and occasional sexual submissive.” Her website, where I found the picture below, explains that:
Drawing on her experience as a professional dominatrix and a personal ‘switch’ and submissive, Nichi creates an intimate, relaxed atmosphere in which she shares sensual sexual knowledge and tips, and demonstrates how to use a wide array of sex toys, S and M props and domestic objects alike to enhance your pleasure in the bedroom.
The domme in both pictures is Coco de Mer’s Allison England who featured in these previously posted tv clips. According to the Time Out article. Allison went over Nichi’s lap for “quite a walloping” in the shop window!?? Note too the nice pair of green silk assless panties in the bottom right corner.
Nichi Hodgson has written about sexual politics for The Guardian and Huffington Post amongst other websites, and recently released a BDSM flavoured memoir called Bound To You. One interesting example of her journalism poses the question “How realistic is the S&M in 50 Shades of Grey?“
Personally, I prefer a partner to use their hands to chastise me and find looking up at someone I adore as I anticipate their slap across my cheek unbearably erotic.
In this piece for The New Statesman, she denounces the hypocrisy of The Sun newspaper which sent a photographer to one of the Coco de Mer sessions, but didn’t use any of the pictures because they were deemed “too racy”.
Posted by Valdor on February 19, 2013
Despite recent ill-health, Murray Roberts found the time to send me this vigorous new KMK spanking which he described as “the best I have seen.”
About 2 minutes.
Posted by Valdor on February 3, 2013
Interesting game show.
Posted by Valdor on January 25, 2013